


where we last left off

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Boot Worship, F/M, Light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 05:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Letting a paladin kiss your boots is the most fun a girl can have with her clothes on.





	where we last left off

**Author's Note:**

> *rubs face* okay, so I headcanon Adaire as a lesbian, but I also had a brilliant idea for a bootblacking fic. I'm also a lesbian, and the lines with like, what you're into and what you're not and under what circumstances can get muzzy. Like, she's into having power over Hadrian, but not into him.
> 
> I have literally no idea how to warn for this, but if that's something that makes you uncomfy, go ahead and skip this one. I'll write more about Adaire and her 4000 girlfriends to make up for it.

It’s another frigid, moonless night, but it’s warm and snug inside the tent. And except for Hadrian’s ragged breathing, it’s quiet, almost peaceful. The paladin kneels at Adaire’s feet, stripped to the waist, his face and torso shining with sweat. And she isn’t even attracted to men, but there’s something compelling about the sight of him on his knees, head bent in submission.

He swallows and looks up at her through his lashes, a question in his eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Adaire lifts her right foot and sets it down on his thigh. Hadrian inhales sharply, tensing as his hands come up to cradle her heel. She presses down slightly, just hard enough to let him feel her heel digging into the meat of his thigh, and Hadrian _gasps_ , breath catching in his throat.

Adaire bites her lip and looks down at him, studying his face. Definitely not into men, definitely into _this_.

“You’ve got a job to do,” she says. “Or did you forget?”

Hadrian starts and reaches for the kit, fumbling one-handed with the catch. His other hand moves around to fully support her heel, holding onto her foot as though it were a rare and precious thing. No one’s ever shown her this kind of reverence before—she likes the submission, is undecided about the worship. If it were Hella instead of Hadrian, well—

She swallows, closes her eyes, takes a breath to center herself.

It isn’t.

Adaire releases the breath, opens her eyes, and lets her eyes wander over his bare back and well-defined arms. He’s built solid, and she’s got him under her thumb, got him kneeling at her feet, got him bent nearly double with all the tendons standing out in his neck and shoulders. He’s going over the leather with a soft brush, gently removing the grit and dirt. A bead of sweat works its way free of his hairline and rolls down his forehead. Someone else—someone kinder—would reach out and wipe it away, would let their hand linger on his cheek, would whisper words of encouragement and let him know how much they appreciate his service.

Adaire sits back in her seat and watches him as he reaches for the bottle of boot oil with trembling hands. His eyes dart to her face once or twice, seeking approval. She nods, and he flushes, bending to his task once more. He rubs the oil into the leather, working it down into the seams and wiping the excess away with a rag.

The scent of oil temporarily overwhelms the scent of sweat and damp wool. Adaire shuts her eyes and breathes through her mouth, wishing vaguely that she had a glass of wine or cider to sip while Hadrian works, just to give her something to do with her hands.

Hadrian clears his throat. “I’m done with this one,” he says, his voice small. “May I?”

She nods imperiously and he sets her foot down and pulls the other into his lap, reaching again for the brush. She watches him intently, and her eyes flick across his groin—he’s hard, cock standing at attention, either for her or for the scene they’re playing, she can’t tell. Something that isn’t revulsion and isn’t arousal twists in her gut and she squirms in her seat, swallowing hard.

“What do you get out of this?” she says, pitching her voice soft and low. “I don’t understand.”

His shoulders hunch, and he says nothing. Adaire allows him a moment of silence, and then clears her throat. Hadrian mumbles something indistinct, and she makes an impatient sound and grinds her bootheel down into his thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. Gasping, he looks up at her. “It’s about service,” he says, breathless and bewildered, “I—I don’t know that I can explain it better than that.”

“But don’t you get tired of it, sometimes?” she says, and she’s thinking about Hella again. “Don’t you ever just want to—to take initiative?”

He blinks, opens his mouth, and closes it again. “No,” he says, more to himself than to her. “Never.”

Adaire fixes him with a look, and he ducks his head, avoiding her eyes. He reaches for the brush, and then hesitates. “Please,” he mumbles, “can I use my mouth?”

“On my boot?”

Hadrian nods frantically.

She laughs, not exactly at him. “Go ahead,” she says.

The relief on his face is palpable, and then he’s prostrate before her, his mouth pressed to the tip of her boot, lathing over the soft leather with his tongue. She watches, heart in her throat, fascinated and disgusted and awestruck. She’s never seen him like this, so intent and so certain. He’s shuddering when he draws back, his mouth a mess of spit and grime. He clutches her foot, holds it over his groin.

“May I?” he says, voice thin and desperate.

Adaire’s throat closes. Part of her wants to say yes, to let him fuck against her boot, to rut like a dog and come in his trousers—she wants that last little bit of power over him, wants to see him make a mess of himself. But this never came up in their negotiations—this isn’t part of the scene. She wasn’t going to touch him, wasn’t going to undress. She wasn’t, and she isn’t.

Shaking her head, Adaire extracts her foot from his grip. “No.”

He bows his head in acceptance and moves back slightly to give her space to gather up her things. Overcoat, scarf, mittens—practical, dull things suited to winter travel. Hadrian watches her, and there’s something in his eyes, something soft and unfocused.

She lingers in the doorway for a moment, looking back over her shoulder at him, crouched there, sweaty and shining. “Once I’m gone,” she says, and her voice is almost fond. “Count to one hundred, and then you can touch yourself.”


End file.
